


Impossible Escapes

by anachronism



Series: Brothers by Association [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anachronism/pseuds/anachronism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex might be something like the godson Yassen should have had and Yassen might be something like the relative Alex had always wished for, but you wouldn’t catch them admitting that to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> Full credit goes to [ObsessivelyOdd](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1859218/) for beta work. Any mistakes are mine.

No one had been more surprised than Yassen by his sudden re-emergence into the land of the living, but the doctor had been trying hard for second place. She walked into the room, dropped her jaw and clipboard before she managed to recover her professionalism. She smiled wryly at him over his medical chart. “Good morning Mr Gregorovich. I wasn’t expecting to see you up.”

 

Yassen would have liked to ask her several questions, but his mouth was blocked by some kind of tube and he was tired. Already he could feel his eyes drifting shut. He tried lifting his arms to see if he was restrained. To his surprise, he wasn’t but moving took more effort than he liked. Either way, he wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

 

“Take it easy,” the doctor advised. “You’ve been out of it for a while.”

 

Yassen had just enough coherency left to wonder exactly how long ‘a while’ was before sleep dragged him back down into oblivion.

 

When he woke up the second time, the tube was gone but restraints had appeared. They were large, leather buckles, not uncomfortable but it was hard not to like what they implied. Then there was the man in the suit, giving orders to someone over his phone. A name immediately came to mind: John Crawley. Yassen had spent too long avoiding MI6 to not know who the man was.

 

Crawley ended his call. “You surprised us, Mr Gregorovich, waking up like you did. Dr Heightmeyer said that you would most likely be in a coma for the rest of your life.” He spoke stiffly. He held himself stiffly too. There was no measure of compassion or friendship in his features, not that Yassen had expected it. Here, he was clearly a prisoner.

 

“How long have I been here?” His first words. His voice felt dry and scratchy and he found he had some difficulty forming the question in English, though he knew it would have been the same had he spoken in Russian.

 

“Almost half a year.”

 

Could it really have been that long? Suddenly, Alex flashed through his thoughts. He remembered his last words to the boy. Had he joined SCORPIA? Was he still working for MI6? Or had he done the sensible thing and gotten out?

 

Yassen forcibly reeled in his wandering thoughts and focused on what was important. “Why am I still alive?”

 

“An emergency response team managed to save you.” It was clear from Crawley’s tone of voice that he would have preferred it if they hadn’t.

 

Yassen remembered belatedly that the UK had abolished capital punishment. But why would that matter when they could have pulled the plug on him while he had been in a coma? He pushed that thought aside too, to be dealt with later.

 

“When the doctors deem you well enough, we’re going to move you to a prison where I will personally ensure that you never see the light of day again.”

 

That was the moment Yassen began to plot his escape.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, any plan he came up with would have to be placed on indefinite hold. After so many months of disuse, Yassen’s muscles protested at the thought of movement. Physical therapy quickly became his favourite part of the day. It was the only chance he ever got to do something besides lounging around, chained to his bed, even if he came out of it feeling exhausted. At least his physical therapist knew what he was doing.

 

Security was tight. Two guards were tasked with following him wherever he went. When he was in his room they acted like sentries outside his door. No-one bothered locking the window because they were five stories up and there were no hand holds for climbing down. He’d have to be suicidal.

 

He wasn’t.

 

The guards irked him more than the multitude of cameras he’d noticed stationed around the hospital, or the skittish way some of the nurses acted around him. If he had his old strength and flexibility back, he would be able to take them out. If he were given a weapon _now_ , well, escape would be difficult, but not impossible.

 

He never got the chance.

 

He had been at the hospital three months – far too long – when John Crawley arrived again with six agents. Two of them were men Yassen had become used to seeing. They relieved the two agents masquerading as guards at Yassen’s door. The other four entered the room with Crawley.

 

“We’re relocating you in the morning,” Crawley informed him. “Agent Powell and Sheldon are going to stay here with you. Agents Mark and Sitwell will be patrolling the outside perimeter. You already know the other two. Do you understand your situation, Gregorovich?”

 

Yassen’s frown was slight: just because he understood, didn’t mean he had to acknowledge it. He turned his gaze to the ceiling and what was left of the sunlight faded away under the oppressive silence.

 

* * *

 

Four hours – _half a lifetime_ – later Yassen had yet to fall asleep. His in-house guards hadn’t said a word, which suited him just fine.

 

He had just come to the conclusion that his best bet would be to make a break for it during transport, when the hallway lights outside his room suddenly went out.

 

As if by magic, guns appeared in the agents’ hands. They tapped their ear-coms and sounded off a voice check. Powell, a large, buff man with a short beard and no head hair ordered, “Be alert,” in a low, gravelly voice, as though the agents weren’t already. “Watch the door,” he told Sheldon. Then he stalked over to Yassen.

 

“Gregorovich,” Powell growled, “who’s coming for you?”

 

Yassen, just as clueless as everyone else, said nothing. Who would come for him? Most likely the malfunctioning lights had nothing to do with him.

 

Sounds of a commotion outside his door reached his ears. Powell growled and went back to the door. He faced Sheldon and mouthed a countdown. Three –

 

The door inched open and slammed shut. Something metallic rolled toward the centre of the room.

 

Of course, Yassen thought, the only people who would care about coming after him were the ones that wanted him dead.

 

The grenade exploded.

 

The last thing Yassen saw was a blinding flash of light.

 

* * *

 

When Yassen came to, he slowly became aware that he was sitting up, unrestrained, with the exception of a strong hand on his shoulder that kept him from falling forward.

 

The hospital hallways moved past at an almost dizzying rate. There was a deafening ringing in his ears. He twitched his fingers weakly and resigned himself to the fact that he was, for the moment, at the mercy of a stranger and his wheelchair.

 

Yassen regained his mobility as he was pushed down empty corridor after empty corridor. It took him several seconds to realize he had regained his hearing. Whoever was pushing him walked like a ghost.

 

He tensed, when they took a particularly sharp corner.

 

“Sorry,” a slightly muffled voice behind him said, “about the stun grenade, I mean. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan.”

 

The voice seemed familiar.

 

“Just hang on for a minute. You should be able to move properly by the time we reach the ambulance. Then we’ll get out of here.”

 

Somehow they made it outside without incident. Barely. The hospital’s automatic doors had just closed behind them when an alarm blared in the building.

 

The ambulance was unlocked and ready to go. The stranger wheeled Yassen to the back entrances and gripped his elbow to help him stand. That was when Yassen got his first look at the man.

 

Not that it was exceedingly helpful. He was dressed in blue nurse’s scrubs with a blue hair-net, facemask and plain-looking prescription glasses. On his hands were a set of white latex gloves. His ID looked real, except his identification read ‘John Smith, R.N.’ and sported a picture of one of the agents that had been guarding Yassen during his stay at the hospital.

 

It was only polite curiosity that kept Yassen from flattening the stranger up against the wall of the ambulance and demanding to know who he was. So far, it didn’t seem as though the stranger had any intent to harm him. So he let himself be guided to the seat in the back of the ambulance (hating that he felt off-balance at all. He was too vulnerable, too far off his game.)

 

The man left the wheelchair outside and closed the doors. Then he shed his hairnet, mask and glasses, and stuffed them in a black duffle bag. He pulled out an EMT shirt and hat and turned to face Yassen, pulling on the articles of clothing as he went.

 

Yassen found himself face-to-face with Alex Rider.

 

Alex examined him for a moment before reaching for a bundle of clothing in his black duffle and handing them to Yassen. Then he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and twirled them around his finger. “Join me up front when you’re ready,” he said. He disappeared to the driver’s seat somewhere behind Yassen, turned on the sirens and pulled out of the parking lot.

 

Yassen didn’t know why he’d been wondering if Alex could drive.

 

It took a moment for him to find his equilibrium in the moving vehicle, but the effects of the stun grenade were quickly wearing off. He dressed in the pants, shirt and shoes which fit him comfortably, wondered briefly at how much thought had gone into what (he could safely assume) was his apparent rescue and moved up front where there was a hat identical to Alex’s waiting for him in the passenger seat.

 

Yassen was normally the kind of person who compartmentalized his curiosity in the middle of a getaway, but he also preferred to know where he was going, so the first thing he asked Alex was, “Who are you working for?”

 

Alex’s attention alternated between the road and his mirrors, but he spared a glance at Yassen long enough to say “Seatbelt” in a pointed manner before going back to watching the mirrors.

 

Feeling more amused than he thought he ought to be, Yassen buckled himself in.

 

“I – ” Alex began, but cut himself off with a short, “hold on,” and slammed on the breaks.

 

A black car with government plates blew by them, screeched to a halt and turned around. Alex was a step ahead, having already turned down a side street. He turned off all the lights on the ambulance as soon as they were out of sight. Street lamps illuminated their way as they travelled down several back roads and doubled back on themselves three times. Alex grinned when they got back on course. Yassen found himself impressed with the confidence Alex handled himself with.

 

Barely a few minutes later, Alex pulled to a stop beneath a freeway overpass bridge behind a vacant red car. He retrieved the duffle and handed it off to Yassen, but not before pulling out a small brown package held together with a strand of twine. He took another set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to Yassen. “Put your hat in the bag and wait for me in the car. I’ll only be a second.” He hopped out of the ambulance.

 

Yassen  put his hat in the duffle, walked over to the car (a Ferrari, he noted with no small amount of appreciation) and evaluated his options.

 

1) He could drive off, right here and now. He had the keys and he had his own contacts. Leaving the country wouldn’t be a walk in the park but he’d been self-reliant for long enough to know he could pull it off.

 

2) He could continue to follow Alex. The teen clearly had a plan, one that possibly included a ticket to a nameless island where he could rest and regain his strength. On the other hand he could be heading into the embrace of another criminal organization that wanted something from him. And in his condition he’d be hard-pressed to refuse.

 

He thought about it and decided he’d wait outside the car instead.

 

He watched Alex greet a homeless woman fondly as she emerged from the shadows. He gave her the brown package which she quickly tucked away out of sight and grasped his hands tightly in a gesture of thanks. He responded with a few words before walking away. She had disappeared back into the shadows before he had reached the car.

 

Alex approached Yassen with a frown. “Are you okay?”

 

Yassen reflected that if he had seen something of John in Alex before, there was more to see now, almost a year later, some centimetres taller and leagues more mature than men twice his age. The genuine concern on his face was trademark John, who had never let his job interfere with his ability to empathize. A rare trait in their business.

 

He didn’t let it affect his common sense. “I need to know who you’re working for.”

 

Concern morphed into understanding. “Most days I work for MI6. Tonight, I’m not working for anyone. I swear.” Alex walked around to the driver’s side door. “Can we finish this conversation at my place?”

 

“There’s more?”

 

Alex shrugged. “Only if you want to hear it, I guess.”

 

“I would like that,” Yassen admitted.

 

They got into the car. Alex shed his gloves, EMT jacket and nurse scrubs, revealing a blue t-shirt and shorts underneath.

 

It was about then that the lack of sleep and sudden rush of recent events caught up to Yassen. He closed his eyes briefly and found his seat so comfortable that (quite unintentionally) he began to drift off.

 

He had no idea how long it took to get to Alex’s house but he was alert the moment the car pulled into the driveway. His eyes blinked in protest at the bright light in the garage that turned on automatically. When they reached the kitchen Alex took one look at Yassen and said, “The conversation will keep until tomorrow. Unless you want something to eat or drink…?”

 

“No,” said Yassen.

 

“Then let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

 

The house was neat, clean and surprisingly normal. It looked lived-in, in stark contrast to the places Yassen frequently moved between every few months. It felt comfortable.

 

A thought occurred to him belatedly as Alex showed him the guest bedroom. “Your guardian doesn’t mind this arrangement?”

 

Alex’s expression became flat. “I live by myself.”

 

Yassen’s brow furrowed. “You’re – ”

 

“Emancipated.” Alex’s body seemed to deflate a little. “Thank god.” He shook his head a little and straightened up. “We can talk about that tomorrow too,” he said when Yassen continued to stare at him in concern.

 

Yassen conceded the point with a nod.

 

“Bathroom’s next door, to your left. There are also a few things in the dresser and closet that should fit you. If you need anything else, I’m in the room at the end of the hall. Otherwise, feel free to help yourself to whatever. Just don’t open any windows or doors before I wake up. I’m going to set the house alarm.”

 

“Alex,” Yassen said before the teen could close the door. Their eyes met and several questions raced through his mind, made their way to the tip of his tongue before he swallowed them down and simply said, “Thank you.”

 

Alex gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “This is me thanking you.” He closed the door behind him softly, leaving Yassen to his thoughts.

 

As Yassen slid into bed he couldn’t help thinking that, son of John or no, it was odd how instinctively he seemed to trust Alex Rider.

 

* * *

 

When Yassen woke the next morning, he had to remind himself that the night before hadn’t been a dream.

 

The room helped.

 

He took his time getting ready for the day, revelling in the feeling of freedom that came without having each of his movements carefully scrutinized by jailors.

 

By the time he made it to the kitchen, Alex was coming in through the front door, covered in a light sheen of sweat, pulling out a set of earphones. He greeted Yassen with a brief “good morning” on his way to the shower. It made Yassen wonder what Alex’s life was like. Something had obviously happened to his guardian. Did he have people close to him that made him happy? He wondered what his friends were like.

 

He moved to the living room and turned on the news. There were the basic traffic reports, local newsworthy events and a gossip section about the club that the prime minister’s daughter had been seen attending last night and speculation about whether or not she had a new boyfriend. There was nothing about an escaped assassin fugitive.

 

Freshly showered, Alex walked into the living room and watched the TV for a few seconds. Thinking along the same lines as Yassen he said, “The SIS hates airing their dirty laundry. The only way the general public is going to learn your name and face is if you become an immediate threat to national security. Do you like omelettes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Yassen rarely ever ate breakfast sitting down, much less with another person. Seeing the food set at the table, knowing that a place had been deliberately set for him felt oddly comfortable in a way he hadn’t experienced since… well, since John had died.

 

“Last night,” he began when they were both seated, “when you said this was you thanking me, what did you mean?”

 

“You’ve helped me out,” Alex said, “more times, I suspect, than I know.” He looked up at Yassen briefly, as though searching for confirmation.

 

Yassen carefully made sure his expression gave nothing away. Although, he admitted to himself, if pressed he wouldn’t deny Alex’s assumption.

 

Alex stabbed at his omelette in a dissatisfied manner then sighed. “I thought that under the circumstances, the least I could do would be to help out a little in return. Especially since I know I wouldn’t be here, at all, if it hadn’t been for you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Until recently,” Yassen expanded, “I was under the impression you hated me. I didn’t expect that to change. Not even if I saved your life twenty times.”

 

Alex’s lips quirked up into a wry smile. “Yeah, well. You just had to go and complicate things, didn’t you?”

 

“How so?” Yassen asked, genuinely curious.

 

Alex stared down at his cup, finished off the rest of his tea and took a fortifying breath.

 

His tale began with Yassen’s last words to him on Air Force One.

 

Alex talked. He talked about travelling to Venice, Italy and finding SCORPIA. He talked about Julia Rothman, Nile, and the island of Malagosto. The way he talked about his peers and instructors was two parts respect, two parts exasperation and three parts fondness.

 

“You liked it there.”

 

Alex hesitated, like he hadn’t told anyone what he was about to tell Yassen. For a moment he argued with himself, then finally said, “They wanted me to be an assassin. I wasn’t cut out for that kind of job.”

 

Yassen waited patiently for the truth.

 

Alex exhaled. “Yeah, I liked it there. They didn’t care how old I was. They only cared about my skills, and whether or not I had what it took to get the job done. I haven’t gotten that since then. Every new agency, every new _agent_ I come across, I have to start from the beginning. To prove I’m worthy of their respect.”

 

“Then why are you still doing this?” It was such a simple question. Perhaps deceptively so.

 

Alex waved his hand. “That’s a whole different story. Suffice to say for now, I got out. It didn’t take. Now I’m back.”

 

Yassen didn’t press the issue. “Very well. What happened after Malagosto?”

 

Alex picked up the thread of the story where he left off. Yassen managed to keep his thoughts to himself until Alex reached the part where they managed to find out what operation Invisible Sword was all about. His jaw clenched in anger. “They had planned to kill thousands of innocent children?”

 

Alex nodded tiredly. “They would have gotten away with it too, if they hadn’t suddenly had a double agent in their midst.”

 

“You,” Yassen guessed, though it wasn’t a question.

 

“Blunt lied for me to the faces of some of the most important people in the world. And I know he only did it because it was the most logical course of action, but he wouldn’t have done it at all if he didn’t trust me. I’d never been thankful to the man before, for anything.”

 

Alex continued to talk, unfalteringly, until he reached the end of the story, had another debate with himself, and told Yassen about how his father had been a double agent too, for MI6.

 

While Yassen’s world view suddenly tilted fifteen degrees to the left, Alex watched him apprehensively. “You didn’t know, did you?” the teen asked.

 

Yassen found his knuckles turning white under the pressure of his clenched fists. He relaxed his hands. But it didn’t dissolve the sudden feeling of betrayal which coursed through his veins like bitter poison.

 

Alex stood up and cleared the table, moving cautiously when he breached Yassen’s personal space. Then he retreated into the kitchen where he took his time cleaning up.

 

It wasn’t normally like Yassen to have such a knee-jerk emotional reaction. People who double-crossed him didn’t get a chance to do it again. That was it. But they were talking about John, the only person he’d admired since he had been eight years old, the kind of man he’d wished he’d had for a father. He had certainly loved him like one.

 

He forced himself to calm down and think about it rationally. Did it matter now? So many years later? He still remembered how fondly John treated him when he wasn’t busy being his mentor. They had trusted each other, like family. It had been a bond encouraged and fostered by John. He had chosen to give a young man the tools he needed to become the best in a business he was actively working against. He could have chosen to hate him instead.

 

Yassen walked into the kitchen where Alex was busy drying a pan. He put it down and looked at Yassen expectantly.

 

“What you told me. You’re certain it’s true?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How?”

 

“I met the man who killed my parents.” Alex hesitated. “It’s another long story.”

 

Yassen gestured back to the table where they had been sitting. “Tell me.”

 

At the end of the hour, Alex was feeling bitter. Yassen was feeling homicidal. “And Ash? Where is he now?”

 

Alex gave him a mirthless smile. “Dead. Definitively.”

 

“Did you – ?”

 

Alex shook his head. “My… sometimes-partner did. Shot him right in front of me, not that he knew who he was shooting. I never told him either.”

 

“I may have to,” Yassen mused aloud, “if I intend to thank him for his services.

 

Alex barked out a laugh at the thought. “You would probably scare him half to death.” His real smile was beautiful.

 

“Hmm, then I guess I’d better not.”

 

* * *

 

The first of their summer months dissolved into a blur of comfortable routine.

 

“I thought MI6 would have stopped giving me physical therapy after a certain point,” Yassen told Alex one day when they were using the room Alex had converted into a fully-functional gym.

 

Alex grunted as he set down his weights. “They did. When they dropped the payments for PT, I picked them up. A little computer magic ensured that the complaints made by the agents watching you never made it to the right people.”

 

“You have the money for that?”

 

“I get paid well,” Alex shrugged, “and I recently received a lot of back pay all at the same time.”

 

Yassen thought of the Ferrari sitting in the garage. “I see.”

 

Alex turned so they were looking at each other face-to-face. “I would have gotten you out sooner, but I’m no medic. I needed to wait until the doctors cleared you to leave.”

 

Yassen stepped off the treadmill. “How long had you been planning this?”

 

Alex wiped his hands off on a towel. “Months. I was out of the country for a few weeks too. I thought they were going to release you while I was gone.”

 

Yassen was curious. “Did you have a secondary plan?”

 

“Not one I liked.”

 

* * *

 

The request had no context. Except that it probably did. If Yassen thought about it. Which he didn’t.

 

“Teach me Russian?”

 

Yassen reflected that if he ever had children of his own he’d be a terrible father based solely on his apparent inability to say no. On the other hand, he had never been a teacher before. He found he rather enjoyed the experience.

 

* * *

 

 

They didn’t talk about it, but they both knew that Yassen was leaving as soon as he felt comfortable enough with himself to step back into the world of spies and assassins. That time came three weeks and four days later. He had a bag with some clothes, money, passports and other essentials slung over his shoulder.

 

There were no long, heartfelt goodbyes, or promises to keep in touch. Yassen packed at midnight. Alex walked him to the door.

 

“ _Do you think we’ll see each other again?_ ” Alex asked in Russian.

 

Yassen responded in kind. “ _I think it’s likely._ ”

 

“ _Send me a postcard._ ”

 

“ _Perhaps._ ”

 

Yassen disappeared into the shadows. Alex locked his door. Neither one looked back.


End file.
